


gunked up

by ODed_on_jingle_jangle



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Good Parent Fred Andrews, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Pneumonia, Protective Fred Andrews, Season/Series 01, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 09:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ODed_on_jingle_jangle/pseuds/ODed_on_jingle_jangle
Summary: There’s an audible, crackling congestion in his chest that Fred doesn’t like one bit.*Re-post. Originally posted on 8/1/2017.





	gunked up

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, here we go, the author's note I'm bout to write is longer than the flipping fic. So, I am a bonafide dumb-ass. Now, I knew I was a dumb-ass to begin with but I didn't realize just how much of a dumbass I was until like, last week, when some anon dropped a note in my inbox about this fic. 
> 
> I forgot the email to the account I originally posted this fic on, so I just, like...never logged back on. And not once did it occur to me until after I answered anon's ask, that on Ao3, you don't even need the email to log in. Fml, you literally just need the user. I remembered the user, for sure. I was pretty I remembered the password. Turns out I do! 
> 
> So this fic is going on 2 yrs old so I debated for a hot min about moving it to this account at all. Why bother, right? But I decided, y'know what, yeah. Because my other garbo-show fics are on this account and also, the email I used on the previous account is indeedly dead, so it just makes more sense to have my fics on an account that I actually get alerts from.

“He’s missed school all week,” Archie mutters worriedly. “I can’t get ahold of him. Betty can’t get ahold of him either.”

Fred sighs out and combs a hand through his thinning hair.

“He might be sick,” Archie adds in afterthought.

“Sick?” Fred raises a brow.

“Yeah, Juggie was coughing a lot before he dropped off the map. Betty was worried about it but he said he didn’t have time to care about catching a cold with FP facing serious jail time.”

Fred’s frown deepens. “He might need his space right now, Archie. He’s got a lot on his plate, some really heavy things to process.”

“Where the heck is he processing at, Dad? He doesn’t have a home.” Archie tosses his hands up. “The trailer is still a crime scene. I checked under the stairs at school. He didn’t go to Ohio. He hasn’t come back here because you said all that stuff about the Jones’s being trouble!”

“You are my first priority and I was right to be concerned…But I could have said that better than the way I did,” Fred admits. “Do you have any idea where else he might be?”

Archie shakes his head, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Go to school,” Fred tells him. He gently pats his son on the shoulder. “I’ll drive around on my lunch break and see if I find anything.”

* * *

Fred shouldn’t be taking long lunches right now, especially not _early_ long lunches, but guilt gnaws at his gut. He has to protect his own son first and foremost, but he knows Jughead’s not a bad kid. He didn’t mean to make him feel like one.

So Fred tries the spots he can think of. He checks the treehouse Archie and Jug had when they were kids, scopes out the forest, and under the bridge.

No sign of him.

The old playground is a dilapidated memory more than anything. When the city built a newer, bigger one, it got roped off and left to the elements.

Fred pulls up and gets out of the car to take a closer look. Weeds sprout between the weathered planks and steps. The jungle gym is coated in dark, flaking rust.

Jughead wouldn’t possibly come here. He and Archie were so little, they probably don’t even remember this place.

Fred turns to head back to the car, when loud, harsh coughing interrupts the silence in the air. He wheels on his heel and quickly searches the area with his eyes. The coughing doesn’t stop. It seems to echo through the air, the sound amplified as though it’s coming through a megaphone.

The tunnel?

Fred steps over the rope and jogs toward the playscape. Sure enough, there’s the view of a familiar beanie peeking out of the entrance of the plastic crawling tunnel.

“Jughead!”

The boy doesn’t seem to hear him, probably can’t hear him over his own coughing. He’s scrunched on his side in the small tube, still in the thick of the deep, chesty fit. Fred hurries over and crouches beside the tunnel, his joints popping quietly. He gently pats Jughead’s face and is startled by the sheer heat of his fever.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “C’mon, Jug…”

The coughing fit leaves Jughead completely winded. He squints up at Fred with glassy, half-lidded eyes.

“Dad?” he croaks uncertainly.

Fred bites his lip and feels the teen’s forehead. The fever baking off of him sears Fred’s palm. He’s burning, _burning_ like rice paper dipped in liquor. He sounds absolutely terrible, still fighting for a solid intake of air. His chest heaves as ratty breaths shallowly rasp in and out of him.

He looks as bad as he sounds too, his normally pale complexion washed a downright ghoulish gray around the glaring flush in his cheeks. His hair is sodden with grease and perspiration, sticking to his too hot face. Jughead’s lashes flutter and Fred lightly jostles his shoulder.

“Stay with me, Jug.”

“Mr. Andrews,” he mumbles in tired confirmation.

Fred squeezes his shoulder. “You’re burning up. I’m gonna take you to the hospital.”

Jughead starts to speak but another coughing fit seizes his chest. He turns away and hacks violently into the plastic tunnel, the sound carried through its circular walls. Fred rubs his back in an attempt to comfort him.

There’s an audible, crackling congestion in his chest that Fred doesn’t like one bit. It’s a frighteningly persistent fit, cough after cough rattling their way out of Jughead until he’s shaking like a leaf. The heat of his fever has the claustrophobic space of the tunnel feeling like a small furnace. There’s an implacable sour smell in the air too, something Fred’s been dimly aware of but only really acknowledges now.

“I’ve got water in the car,” he offers when the fit finally, finally dies down. “Help me help you, Jug.”

The boy vigorously shakes his head, his breath raspy and strained.

“No hospital,” he wheezes with another head shake. “Can’t afford it…”

“Son, you can’t afford not to go,” Fred says sternly. “You can barely breathe.”

Jughead tries to push himself up but his arms tremble and give. It sets off another bout of coughing. Fred pulls him out of the tunnel enough to prop him up against his torso, hoping being upright might help curb the coughs. The source of the sour scent reveals itself as dried vomit splashed down the front of Jughead’s shirt.

Maybe being upright does help because this coughing bout seems shorter than the other two. But it still dishes a beating Jughead can’t take. He slumps limply into Fred, eyes falling shut with exhaustion. It’s then that Fred notices his clothes are somewhat damp. Whether it’s from sweat or puke or something else, he isn’t sure.

“Keep breathing,” he encourages as he fishes his phone out. He was going to take him to the ER, but an ambulance is the better way to go here. He couldn’t concentrate on driving with the kid this sick in his car, coughing like a lung’s about to come and audibly struggling to get enough air.

“Hurts,” Jughead mumbles feebly.

“Your chest?”

“Everything…” He puts a fist to his mouth as he starts coughing again.

Fred dials 911 and gives the dispatcher the location, pocketing his phone again after the fact. Jughead coughs through the whole thing. The coughs are still tearing out of him, nasty and wet. Fred palms at his forehead again and clucks his tongue, his heart tight with concern.

Eventually the fit works its way out but it’s hardly a relief.

“It’s warmer in the car,” Fred says, keeping his tone level and calm even though he’s frankly disturbed by Jughead’s condition. “Think you can make it to the car?”

Jughead slowly nods. He braces a knee on the ground and starts to stand, doesn’t give up even though he’s wobbling like a lump of gelatin. Fred takes him under the armpits and hauls him the rest of the way up. He slides Jughead’s arm over his shoulders and keeps a steadying hand on his wrist, a grounding arm looped around his waist.

Jughead coughs and coughs and Fred helps him stumble along, taking most of the weight even though he puts in a hell of an effort to help. The walk takes much longer than it should. Jughead almost goes down twice, once when he trips over an uneven, weedy knot in the ground. The second time there’s no obstruction, his legs just fold out from under him. But Fred picks him back up and he finds his feet again.

Jughead is sturdy, after all.

When they finally reach the car, Fred eases him into the passenger’s seat. Jughead collapses into it like the distance took a lot out of him. He snaps forward with another storm of coughs, nearly thunking his forehead against the dashboard. Fred kneads a hand between his shoulder blades.

“You did good. Just hang in there a little longer, help’s on the way.”

Jughead settles back when the coughing subsides and squints at Fred uncertainly.

“How did…” He gestures vaguely and then visibly gives up, just shaking his head as labored breaths rattle in and out of him.

“That’s okay,” Fred murmurs, patting the boy’s shoulder.

It’s only another few minutes before the ambulance arrives and when it does, Jughead is coughing again. Fred steps back to give the paramedics some space to assess him, but he’s not exactly in a state to answer most of the questions they ask. So Fred takes over, offers up what he knows.

As far as he knows Jughead isn’t allergic to any medication, albeit that’s certainly not something he would necessarily know. He does know that he’s not currently on any prescribed medication and trusts that he’s not using any recreational drugs. He does know that he’s delirious and that he hasn’t had proper shelter in days. He does know that he’s been sick for about as long.

An EMT helps Jughead hobble to the back of the vehicle and with this, Fred almost returns to his car. But then Jughead looks back over his shoulder, at Fred, his complexion still awful and glazed eyes wavering.

That look tugs at Fred’s protective instincts and he finds himself asking, “Can I ride with him?”

* * *

The last place Fred expected to go to this morning was the hospital. But here he is, blowing off the rest of the workday to watch the gauzy fog of Jughead’s breaths smear the oxygen mask. Jughead shouldn’t be left alone right now, not with pneumonia.

Fred is good at keeping cool when it comes to most things. He’s a seasoned parent and it takes a lot to faze him. In spite of that, this ordeal has been a little on the scary side. Jughead’s fever was a dangerous _104.3_ that needed a shot of antipyretic to knock out. His audible difficulty breathing rendered it no surprise but no less a concern that his blood oxygen level was too low. Severe dehydration was just the cherry on top.

So Fred stayed outwardly calm, chewed on his lip instead of asking distracting questions. He gave the medical professionals room to do their jobs and watched silently. He wasn’t keen on letting Jughead out of his sight but rolled with it anyway when they took him down for x-rays. He used the opportunity to call Hermione and explain his absence. He didn’t flinch when they did bring Jughead back with the confirmation: pneumonia, bacterial, in both lungs.

Jughead himself was semiconscious through most of this. In and out, delirious even when he was more conscious than not. Fred was especially determined to remain straight-faced when he was. He held his hand as they hooked him up to the IV and offered a smile when he squeezed back, even if his grip felt much too weak.

It hadn’t taken him that long to fall into a more comfortable sleep once they had him situated. And Fred hadn’t moved from the provided plastic chair. He just kept an eye on him, careful and vigilant. Guarding.

That’s where he is still, watching over Jughead intently and paying close attention. He sounds better now that being hooked up to the oxygen tank is taking the extra strain off his lungs. His breathing is still thick and wet but now it’s evened out. He’s not gasping like a fish out of water anymore. There’s a gentler rhythm to the rise and fall of his chest that Fred is relieved to pace.

Jughead looks better too. His complexion isn’t as stark, isn’t stoplight red splotches slapped on washed out dough. There’s still some flush in too pale cheeks but it’s more subdued. Fred sweeps some of the hair back from his face, oily residue left on his fingertips. The kid needs a shower but really, he needs a lot of things and an overdue shower is the least of his problems. His hair is all stuck up, askew without the hat, and Fred idly strokes some of it into place.

Fred’s touch is light from experience, it won’t disrupt the teen’s sleep. When he’s done smoothing his hair down, he rests the back of his hand to Jughead’s forehead. He’s still feverish and an uncomfortable heat prickles against Fred’s knuckles, but it’s nothing compared to the inferno that was blazing under his skin when he found him.

People keep walking through the hall with steaming styrofoam cups in their hands, the scent of coffee wafting through the room. Fred could use one, honestly, and he’s tempted. But he doesn’t know where the machine’s at or how far away it is, or how long it would take to find his way back to the room when everything here looks the same. He doesn’t want Jughead to wake up alone.

So he fiddles with his phone and tries not to let the scent tease his tongue. He’ll call Archie after school to tell him what’s going on and have him go get the car. Fred doesn’t know exactly where the spare key is though, it’s been awhile since they’ve had to use it. He thinks it’s in the junk drawer in the kitchen but it could just as easily be in the nightstand drawer in his bedroom.

Then again, maybe Archie shouldn’t get the car. Fred doesn’t want him panicky at the wheel. Archie’s like he is, pretty good about keeping his head (mostly, albeit Fred’s been a little dubious lately). But his best friend in the hospital?

Yeah, that might spook him. If he doesn’t drive he could probably get a ride with Betty. But that means with well, Alice, and Fred definitely isn’t in the mood to deal with Alice. Alice is also a vulture and Jughead doesn’t need another one of those swooping in, especially not while he’s sick.

It’ll be fine. The spare car key is in one of two places, most likely. And Fred will just remind his son to stay calm. There’s no reason not to be calm, anyway. Hospitalization is a little daunting, for sure, but Jughead’s gonna be fine. He’s a tough kid and they’ve got him on some strong antibiotics.

Fred’s still mulling this over and trying to configure the rest of the day when Jughead wakes himself coughing. He snaps forward, coughs, then slumps back to the pillows coughing some more. Fred scoots closer and gently squeezes his shoulder. Jughead brings a hand to his mouth, brow furrowing when his fingers find the oxygen mask. A second later and he belatedly notices the tube tethering his hand to the IV.

He rolls his wrist to regard it more closely, blinking the bleariness out of his eyes. Fred gives his shoulder another squeeze and helps him settle back.

“Pneumonia, remember?”

“Maybe,” Jughead mumbles. He inhales a deep sigh that gets scratchy at the end and prompts another, thankfully briefer, round of coughs. “Barely.”

“How do you feel?” Fred asks.

“Uh…hazy? Do not like the way this makes me sound.” He taps a finger against the mask.

“Well you sound even worse without it, trust me.” Fred rubs at the back of his neck, frowning tensely. “You were really sick— You’re still really sick, Jug. Pneumonia’s nothing to scoff at. When you get out of here, you’re coming back with us. You can’t sleep out in the open like that. It’s not healthy and it’s not safe.”

Jughead’s eyes flicker around the room and then meet Fred’s again. “Archie’s not here?”

“No, he’s still in school. I haven’t called him yet.”

“Then you can be honest with me and tell me if you don’t want me staying over,” Jughead says quietly. “I’ll understand.”

“Listen to me, Jug. You are welcome in our house and I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t. I definitely prefer you safe under my roof than sleeping out in the open. I don’t ever again want to find you in the shape I did today. Alright?”

Relief washes over Jughead’s face and he gives an agreeable nod. “Thanks, Mr. Andrews…”

Fred flashes him a small smile. Jughead starts coughing again. It’s a pretty ugly fit and it hits hard. He looks spent by the time he reaches the end of it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Then a quick head shake and a soft groan. “This is gonna be super expensive, all of this.” He gestures around the room. “And the ambulance ride, right? The ambulance happened?”

“Yeah, it happened. I’m surprised you remember it at all, your fever was through the roof. Just rest, Jug. Get better first. We’ll figure the expenses out when you’re better.”

It’s a lingering concern picking at the back of Fred’s brain too. Medical bills aren’t cheap and he’s not exactly in the position to foot any, not now with his own precarious budget supporting three. Fred knows next to nothing about any insurance coverage Jughead may or may not have. Figuring out how to handle the expenses of this is a legitimate issue, but it’s an issue that can take a backseat until Jughead’s off the IV.

“When do I get discharged?” he asks, forehead creasing.

“I don’t know,” Fred tells him. “We’re not there yet.”

“I don’t…I don’t even know what day it is,” Jughead admits, a touch of anxiety in his voice.

“Friday. No one’s seen or heard from you all week. Have you been at the park this whole time?” Fred frowns at the thought.

Jughead nods as he starts coughing again. He folds forward with the tide of the fit. Fred sighs and rubs his back in slow circular motions, hoping to help at least a little. When the spasm dwindles away, Jughead lies back and just spends a few moments catching his breath before he speaks again.

“The last day I remember like, clearly is Tuesday. I threw up a lot and I just tried to sleep it off after that.” Jughead blinks slowly, a thoughtful look falling over his face. “I had some really weird, tripped out dreams. I was a zombie in one of them, even had a zombie dog…Which is pretty cool in theory but it felt more like a nightmare while it was happening.”

“Fever dreams aren’t really noted for being pleasant,” hums Fred. “You’ll probably sleep better now that it’s down.”

Jughead nods tiredly and spends another moment just breathing.

“I know I already asked but I’m going to ask again because you freaked me out today, Jug. How do you feel?”

The kid pauses and lifts his head a bit just to let it drop back heavily.

“Like I really am a zombie,” he mutters. “Even when I’m not coughing I feel like I have to. I ache all over and it’s freezing in here.”

“Here.” Fred slides his jacket off and drapes it over Jughead’s torso. “Take that for now. I’ll ask Archie to bring an extra blanket when he comes.”

“Thanks.” Jughead shifts a little, getting more comfortable. “What time is it anyway?”

“A little after two. Are you gonna be okay if I slip out to get some coffee?”

“Can I have coffee?” Jughead raises a brow. “Coffee sounds awesome.”

“I don’t imagine diuretics mix well with dehydration but I’ll ask your doctor anyway,” Fred promises as he stands, heading for the door.

Jughead makes a face before another rough bout of coughing rises up. Fred lingers and takes an instinctive step closer to the bed. Jughead waves him off.

“I’m okay,” he says between coughs. “Get your coffee.”

Fred stays anyway, keeping a careful eye on him.

“Mr. Andrews, really, I’m fine,” Jughead sighs when he’s made it through the coughs, his voice worn roughshod.

‘Fine’ is not a word Fred would use to describe Jughead right now, pneumonia and otherwise considered. In Fred’s mind ‘fine’ is more of a pending status as far as Jughead Jones is concerned.

Fred leans down and gets him the remote for the provided television in the corner.

“See if you can find something to watch. No horror movies though, okay? I won’t be gone too long and you know blood and guts isn’t really my style.”

“No worries, watching blood and guts in a hospital wouldn’t really sit well with me anyway,” Jughead agrees as he flicks the television on. “Oh hey, the premium cable. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Fred goes on his hunt for coffee, leaving Jughead to explore the channels. He gets some directions along the way and finding the cafeteria is a little easier than he anticipated. He finishes a coffee and a sandwich there, then refills the coffee before he heads back to Jughead’s room.

He couldn’t have been gone for more than fifteen minutes, but the kid is asleep again. Something on the animal channel hums lowly in the background. Fred quietly makes himself comfortable and splits his attention between a program about chimpanzees raised as pets and the soft noise of Jughead breathing. Neither of which are particularly interesting, but Fred had more than enough excitement this morning and from where he’s sitting, a boring afternoon certainly won’t be the worst one in recent memory.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes that was a reference to Afterlife with Archie.
> 
> Took all my fics off the dead email account, but did not delete dead email account, if only because I like my icon. The Predator in Archie vs. Predator was a very cute predator. Sorely tempted to change him to my icon on here too, but nah. Sorry Preds, Betty still my fave.


End file.
